Paul was one whose senses were exquisitely attuned.
"Mrs. Haswell—Loraine," he said, and his voice was seductively tender, "you are unhappy."
Slowly she nodded her dark head and her voice was a whisper. "Yes.... Paul, I'm afraid I am just that."
It was the first time they had called each other by their first names. It was the first time that the gradually ripening intimacy between them had had a more propitious setting than a table at Sherry's. Paul Burton had awaited this moment patiently, knowing that it must sometime come. Now he bent toward her until her hair brushed his face.
"It is your right to find life a thing of joy," he whispered. "Your soul is a flower. It should have the fulness and radiance of sunshine."
"Our rights," she said slowly, "are not always the things we get."
"But just why are you unhappy?" he insisted.
"I guess you summed it up in that one word, Paul ... captivity."
Paul Burton, the easily swayed, the facilely led, rose and paced up and down, and after a few moments he halted before her.
"Doesn't he—your jailer—appreciate you, Loraine?"